Return to Willow Lake

by Susan Wiggs

  “I wanted to wish her luck today,” he said, shutting the van door. “Is that a problem?”

  “No,” she said, nonplussed. “No, I’m just surprised.”

  “Yeah, that’s me,” he said. “Surprising. So what’s your boyfriend think of Avalon?”

  Ah, she thought. He’d come to check out her boyfriend. For a split second, she felt a flash of gratification. “He seemed to like it,” she said. “Why? Did my mother say something?”

  He leaned back against the van, propping his foot on it. “Just that your boyfriend showed up.”

  “And? Did she say she liked him?”

  “Hell, Sonnet, why don’t you ask her?”

  “Because she’ll tell me she likes him, but I won’t know if she really does, or if she’s just saying that.”

  He let out a brief laugh. “You two. You speak in tongues. Just say what you mean. And by the way, am I going to meet the dude?”

  She gasped. “Why would I introduce you to my boyfriend?”

  “Why wouldn’t you?”

  “Because it would be weird, Zach. For lots of reasons.”

  “No,” he corrected her. “For one reason, and one reason only. Tell me, was he your boyfriend when we slept together?”

  “Absolutely not,” she said swiftly. “I can’t believe you’d even ask me that. And anyway, you can’t meet him, because he left already. He had to get back to the city for work.”

  “Quick trip,” he said.

  “At least he came.” She took a deep breath, tasting the cool morning air. Without warning, tears sprang to her eyes. She ducked her head, hoping Zach hadn’t seen.

  “Hey,” he said, “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “You didn’t.”

  “Then what’s wrong?”

  What’s wrong? Two simple words. No one ever asked her that, because she was usually so vigilant, determined to prove to the world that nothing was wrong, ever. This morning, she felt scared and vulnerable and a little bit lost. And Zach—damn him—could read her like a magazine in a doctor’s waiting room.

  “Orlando’s bugged that I’m staying here,” she blurted out, needing to confess. “He’s worried I won’t have a career left when this is all over.”

  “Wait a second—Orlando? Your boyfriend’s name is Orlando? Your mom didn’t tell me that.” Amusement tinged his voice.

  “Don’t start with me, Zach.”

  “Okay, but I get to make fun of his name later.”

  “Listen, you’re not going to tease me out of worrying about my mom.”

  “Funny, what I heard was you worrying about Orlando. And your career.”

  “Because he might be right,” she shot back. “I might not be doing what’s best for my mom by being here. What if she gets sucked into all the mud-slinging of the campaign? Sometimes I feel like I’m not helping my mother at all, just getting in the way.”

  “Don’t think for one minute you’re not helping. Your being here, that’s everything.”

  She gaped at him, because the moment the words left his mouth, she felt calmer. Where had those simple bits of wisdom come from? How had he known she needed them? Because they were friends. They’d always been friends. She’d been a fool for putting that friendship at risk, the night of the wedding. “Thanks, Zach. I know things have been weird between us lately, but really, thanks for saying that.”

  “No problem. And just so you know, I’m not feeling weird about us at all.”

  I am. She didn’t say so, though, because that was her issue, clearly. “Listen, I’d better go get ready for the hospital with my mom. After she’s settled, I’ll be on set.”

  “Don’t worry about the production.”

  “It’s my job—my brand-new job—to worry about the production.”

  “Fine, worry about it, then. But remember the real reason you’re here.”

  This was the Zach she missed. This was the Zach she regretted losing thanks to their night of madness. Maybe, just maybe they could go back to being just friends. She needed that now, needed it more than anything.

  “I will. And, um, thanks for the reminder.”

  * * *

  “I honestly don’t need you to come,” Nina said, dunking a tea bag in her mug while standing at the kitchen counter. “It’s really sweet of you, but Greg and I will manage just fine.”

  Sonnet glanced at Greg. “Your shirt’s on backward.”

  “Huh? Oh, yeah.” He set aside his cereal bowl and ducked out of the kitchen, pulling the jersey shirt over his head.

  Sonnet gave her mom an “I rest my case” look.

  Nina smiled, but then the smile turned tremulous, and she pivoted away to look out the window. “I hate what’s happening,” she said. “I hate what it’s doing to the people I love.”

  Sonnet took her hand and gave it a squeeze. It felt strange—and strangely right—to offer comfort to the one person who had comforted her all her life, giving her pep talks, soothing her wounds, telling her the world could be a rough place but it was no match for a determined woman. “I suppose it’s okay to hate it,” Sonnet said. “That’ll keep us motivated to get through this, right?”

  Her mom nodded. “Good thinking. How did you turn out so smart?”

  She had asked that question many times over the years, and Sonnet’s answer was always the same. “I take after my mother.”

  This morning, the reminder didn’t have the usual effect. Instead, Nina tensed up and set aside the herbal tea she was supposed to be drinking. Sonnet knew she was thinking about the hereditary factor in cancer. “Knock it off, Mom, okay?” she said. “Deep breath. And drink some more of your tea. It’s got chamomile and burdock. Supposed to be good for the nerves.”

  “I’m breathing,” Nina protested. “And if I drink any more, I’ll float away.”

  Sonnet finally asked the question that had been bothering her all morning. “I saw you with Zach earlier.”

  “He…um, he came by to wish me luck today.”

  “What else aren’t you telling me, Mom?”

  “Nothing.” For perhaps the tenth time that morning, she checked the contents of the bag she was taking to the hospital. “I wonder if I’m bringing enough books to read.”

  “When have you ever read four books in one day?” Sonnet asked, dropping the subject of Zach—for now.

  “I’m bringing backup books in case I don’t like the others.”

  Sonnet detected a flash of panic in her mom’s eyes. “Let’s practice our breathing.”

  “I know how to breathe.”

  “Mom.”

  Nina heaved a sigh. “You’re like a dog with a bone,” she said.

  “Woof, woof.” She led the way to the living room, and she handed her mother a book. “Here you go.”

  “The Secret Art of Dr. Seuss? What’s this for?”

  “Not for reading. Just humor me. We have to lie down on the floor.”

  “But—”

  “Humor me,” she repeated, and the two of them lay side by side. “Put the book on your stomach like this.” She grabbed another book from the coffee table and demonstrated. “Now, breathe in, and let your stomach lift the book as high as it’ll go, for a count of five.”

  “That’s harder than it looks.”

  “Therefore we practice.”

  Nina gave it a try, and Sonnet breathed along with her. After five seconds, they emptied their lungs for another count of five. Sonnet didn’t let up until th
ey’d repeated the exercise several times.

  Greg came into the room, his shirt on properly this time. “You’re on the floor with books on your bellies,” he said.

  Nina took one look at his face, and started to laugh. “My daughter’s giving me breathing exercises,” she explained, moving the book and climbing to her feet.

  “She’s always seemed pretty good at breathing to me,” he said to Sonnet.

  “Did you know,” Sonnet asked, “that most people fail to breathe properly? Babies are all really good breathers. They fill their lungs all the way down to their bellies. But most of us forget how to do it right. We become upper-chest breathers and we fail to use our lungs to full capacity.”

  “Good to know,” Greg said. “When the baby comes, we’ll look for that.”

  When the baby comes. Sonnet was grateful to Greg for focusing on the ultimate goal, but at the moment, she couldn’t think beyond the fact that her mom was about to be pumped full of toxins. She busied herself getting everything into the car—an extra pillow and blanket. A lavender sachet—the scent was supposed to be soothing. A cooler filled with drinks, snacks and gel packs for her fingers, which were likely to be damaged by the drugs. She’d put some music on an iPod—music she thought her mom would like, not the weird supposedly soothing new-age stuff that would only annoy Nina, but the kind of music she always loved listening to.

  They drove separately to the hospital and met in the parking lot. Sonnet caught her mom looking wistfully at a vibrant, massively pregnant young woman heading to the obstetrics unit. Sonnet and her mom and Greg took another route—to the oncology unit.

  There were blood tests, and then the drugs were prepared. The chemo room was furnished with comfy chairs for the patients, a TV and supply of magazines. Nina seemed a little nervous, her gaze flicking from Greg to Sonnet to the network of pumps and tubes and hanging bags. The nurses wore gloves because the drugs were so toxic. The docs had assured them the placental wall would filter out any toxicity, keeping the poison from reaching the baby. Still, Sonnet felt nauseous, though she was determined not to let it show.

  “You look nauseous,” Nina said as she took a seat in one of the big recliners.

  Busted. No one knew Sonnet like her mom did. “I can only imagine how you’re feeling.”

  “I’m staying focused on the idea that this is going to get me better.”

  “Good advice for all of us,” Greg said.

  “I’m anxious to get going with it. The nausea will come later, I’m sure.”

  The list of side effects was lengthy and horrible. Sonnet had pored over it, along with all the other literature she’d hastily devoured, searching for grains of hope. The worst part of chemo started after the drugs were administered. “And we’ll be there for you,” she said stoutly. “That’s a promise.”

  Nina checked the time. “You should go. I’ll need you more later, okay?”

  Greg nodded. “We’ll see you back at the house.”

  Other patients seemed to be getting settled in. Some were reading, others chatting with each other, one woman was knitting with scarlet yarn. Sonnet felt reluctant to leave. As a kid, she’d never been the clingy type. But then again, she’d never dealt with her mother having a life-threatening disease. She paused at the door and looked back at the chemo room. The morning light flowing in through a high window illuminated everything with a dreamlike glow. Her mother’s oversized chair resembled a throne, and all the tubes, keypads, poles and bags were some kind of weird frame around her. She seemed like a fragile, magical creature, easily broken.

  “Okay,” Sonnet said, forcing steadiness in her voice. “See you tonight.”

  Chapter Ten

  Sonnet hurried from the hospital to Camp Kioga where the day’s filming was taking place. Certain she was late, she drove too fast along Lakeshore Drive. She hated being late, a propensity that dated back to the fourth grade, when the first class of the day happened to be PE. At the age of ten, she’d been good enough at sports to get picked for the team early on, rather than standing around like a geek, wishing the painted gym floor would swallow her up. However, the rotation she remembered the best, and with the most pain, was the square dancing rotation—six endless weeks of swing your partner and do-si-dos, a discipline tailor-made for social humiliation.

  She was almost never late for school, but one drippy autumn day, her mom had forgotten to set the alarm and they’d both overslept. As if responding to a fire drill, they’d thrown on their clothes and bolted for the door. Nina had made Sonnet choke down a container of yogurt in a nod toward breakfast, and Sonnet had yanked on her socks—ridiculously mismatched—and shoes in the car. There had been no time to smooth out her Jheri-curled style or to twist it into the usual neat braids.

  “I look like a troll doll,” she’d yowled, balking as her mom pulled up at the school.

  “You look fine, Sonnet. I have bushy hair, too. Part of my Italian-American heritage.”

  “Your hair looks nice. Mine doesn’t. And I hate this sweater.” She regretted grabbing the somewhat worn gray hoodie from a hook as she’d raced out the door. “It’s a hand-me-down. I hate hand-me-downs.”

  “It’s a good sweater. It’s Esprit.”

  “It has a G on it. Everybody knows I don’t have a G in my name.” One inside pocket label, someone had written Property of Georgina Wilson, which added insult to injury. Georgina Wilson was two years ahead of Sonnet in school, and she lived up on Oak Hill in an old-fashioned mansion, and she never let anyone forget that her father was the bank president, and that her mother was in charge of the very exclusive Rainbow Girls.

  Sonnet’s mom was their maid. Well, not really their maid, but she cleaned house for them once a week in order to help pay her tuition. She’d been in school forever, getting ahead a bit at a time, explaining to Sonnet that a college degree was worth every bit of hard work it took to earn it. The Wilsons probably thought they were doing Nina a favor, giving her Georgina’s hand-me-downs, but Sonnet didn’t see it that way. To Sonnet, wearing castoff clothing was just another way to make her different from the other kids at school. As if she needed one more thing to make her different.

  First, her mom was way younger than all the other moms of the kids in her class. Sometimes people mistook her mom for her babysitter, even. And second, her dad was just gone. She never saw him and heard from him only a couple of times a year, if that. Third, she was biracial, which was not supposed to be a big deal in this day and age (she’d heard people whispering that when they thought she couldn’t hear), but different was different, period.

  The last thing you wanted on square dance day was to be different.

  “I feel sick,” she’d told her mom as they stopped at the curb in front of the school. “I think I should spend the day at Nonna’s.”

  “You’re not sick, just late,” her mom had said, scribbling a note. “Give this to the lady at the office and you won’t get in trouble.”

  “I don’t want to go,” Sonnet said.

  “You love school,” her mom stated, as if she was in charge of what Sonnet loved and didn’t love. “You always make straight As and check-pluses in conduct.”

  School was easy, Sonnet thought. The learning part, the conduct part. But everything else—like fitting in and making friends—that was the hard part.

  “It’s square dancing,” she confessed in a huff. “I hate square dancing.”

  Her mom had chuckled. “Everybody hates square danci
ng. I think it’s required.”

  “Then why do they make us do it?”

  “Builds character.”

  “You always say that. I don’t even know what that means.”

  “When something is hard, but you do it anyway and get stronger because you did it, that’s building character.”

  Sonnet sighed. “Come on, square dancing? We have to find a partner and sort ourselves into sets and hold hands and dance together. It’s not hard. It’s just…yuck.” She cringed and clung to the handle of the car door. “Mrs. Mazza makes us pick partners.”

  Her mom had nodded in sympathy. “She’s old-school, that’s for sure. She believes in building character, too. Now, here’s your lunch card. You’ve got three punches left. I have to get to work, and you need to get to class, okay?”

  With a glum nod, Sonnet exited the car in slow motion and entered the school like a condemned prisoner on the way to the gallows. The square dancing lesson was just beginning when she arrived at the gym. She tried slipping in unnoticed, but Mrs. Mazza had a special radar when it came to kids. She could detect movement from a mile away, it seemed.

  “Glad you decided to join us,” she said. “Now we have an equal number of boys and girls, so we can get started. Over here, Sonnet. Marcus Swoboda needs a partner.”

  Nobody called Marcus Swoboda Marcus. Everybody knew his nickname was Leaky. And everybody knew why.

  Sonnet took a deep breath and held it. She wondered if it was possible to hold her breath through the entire class. She wondered if she could hold her breath until she passed out.

  Surveying the other kids in the class, she could see the mocking amusement in their faces. Even her supposed best friend, Zach Alger, was doubled over, shaking with silent laughter.

  Traitor, she thought.

  From that day onward, she tried her best to be on time. Because tardiness often carried unpleasant consequences.